


Holding The Infinite

by silbs



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: 69th Hunger Games
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-27 01:40:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20037784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silbs/pseuds/silbs
Summary: Anya Sowe, a sixteen-year old from District Eight, has been reaped for the Sixty-ninth Hunger Games. Follow her through her journey to both victory and destruction.





	Holding The Infinite

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is a fic I started in 2014 and have not gotten around to finishing, 5 years later lmao. This was first posted in fanfiction.net, and I am actually hoping that this would reach a wider audience here in ao3. So here ya go. Your reviews would be much appreciated, so fire away!

There’s a long, long silence before Iris speaks up once more. Her voice mixes in with the familiar hums of the machines from the other side of the district, but her words are not hard to filter out. “I just can’t believe how brash you can get,” she says as she tosses a pack of ice towards Nidle. He catches it effortlessly. “I mean, I’d do the same if I was there, but that doesn’t mean you should sink to _ his _ level.”

Garett runs a hand through Iris’ brown hair. The gesture leaves me pink in the face. I bow my head to hide it. “I’d like to see you throw a punch or two,”

Nidle presses the ice pack to his shoulder. “Yeah. Let’s see Iris the Weakling handle a stupid idiot like Weaver.” He winces. “Ouch.”

“You shouldn’t have punched him in the face.” I tell him before reaching out for a cookie from the bowl in the middle of our own, happy circle. I should thank Nidle, really. Even with his brash attitude, always charging headfirst into things, he threw that punch at Weaver to stand up for me. It’s a sweet gesture, but Weaver might pay him back with two punches or more. Nothing pleases an idiot more than to win what he just lost.

“I’d punch him again and again if he continued looking at you like that.” Nidle snorts before pressing the pack to his shoulder. Weaver had been getting on my nerves for the past week ever since he heard a rumor about my mother in the factory he had a shift in. He’s been bugging me about it, yapping and yapping even though I told him to stop. Today, though, he went too far. He pinned me to the wall of a building a few yards away from school, saying stuff like I was definitely prettier than Mom: in his eyes was hunger, a different kind of hunger that I have seen before, the hunger of man that makes you fear for the days to come. I thought I was a goner when Nidle swooshed in. The only thing I heard was a loud thud, and Weaver is on the floor, clutching his face and crying. Nidle was going to throw a punch at him again when Garett arrived and told me to help him pull Nidle away from the scene.

“He’s going to look good for the cameras tomorrow.” Iris laughs. “Imagine his swollen face up in the big screen.”

“I’d feel sorry.” Garett smiles. He pours us each a cup of apple juice.

I take the cup in my hands with much gratitude for Iris. She’s the reason why the three of us—Garett, Nidle, and I—have been able to enjoy stuff the other kids or families can’t afford. This warrants us unwanted attention from people, kids who think we’re friends with Iris because she’s richer than any of us. I drink the juice before my hands get the chance to drop the cup. It’s sweet, but there’s a hint of sourness to it. If luxury has a taste, this would be it.

“It’s tomorrow again, huh.” Iris says out of the blue. “How many slips do you have in?”

I can’t help but hang on tighter to the cup. The question is harmless, and yet it stirs panic in me. I could feel my defense mechanism kicking in. Of course I’d feel on the edge: Iris only has five slips in. The smell of the earth and grass helps me regain my composure a bit. “I’ve thirty.” The sound of my own voice and the words escaping my mouth leaves me feeling hollow.

Garett chews on a cookie before answering. “I’ve got ten.”

Nidle, the ones who has the most slips among us, speaks up in a carefree voice, as if the number of his slips doesn’t matter at all. “Thirty-five.” He says with a stupid smile on his face. He raises his cup in mock of a toast. “May the odds be ever in my favor.”

“Stupid Nidle.” I say under my breath. He might think he knows me well, but I do know him well, too. He’s masking his nervousness about the reaping tomorrow with a façade of confidence. He’s played this card too many times for me not to notice.

Ugh. I hate it when Iris brings up a subject matter that’s just too sensitive.

To be fair, though, I did the same thing, here in the comfort of her home, in the mayor’s own house. Our talk about the District 13 footage still gives me chills during the night. Ever since, it feels like the four of us are being watched closely by the Capitol. Everyone knows in 8 that we are not safe from the ears of President Snow. Some of our citizens learned that the hard way. An apt punishment, they would tell us when someone _ learns _. We all know it’s a reminder for those who dare go against the Capitol.

“I’m going to gussy myself up for the cameras.” Nidle laughs. At the same time, Iris lets out a squeal. She smacks her forehead, says, “I almost forgot!”, and runs inside the house. We all watch her back as she disappears behind the door.

The three of us turn our attention back to the food in front of us. Iris has always been such a giver, showering us with gifts which her father approved beforehand. The gifts usually consist of food and basic needs, like thread, bandages, soap. I reach for another cookie, but Nidle gets it before I do. “Are you going to Cecelia’s later?”

I nod. Cecelia had asked yesterday for me to come to her house today. “I’ll drop you off,” Nidle continues on.

“The factories are a long way off to the Victor’s Village,” Garett points out.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see a tint of pink flush in Nidle’s cheeks. Of course, I don’t tell him that I saw that. I might enjoy embarrassing him from time to time, but I needed to cut him some slack. “Weaver might come back for her. Also, mind your own business, Garett.” He snaps, crossing his arms over his chest.

I try my hardest not to laugh.

Iris comes running back to us, something red in her hands. Nidle snorts. “Speaking of business, here comes yours.” She pants when she comes in our proximity, as if she had just run from the factories to the Justice Building. Iris was never a good runner, and her physicality is at the bottom compared to the three of us.

“Breathe,” Garett instructs her as he stands to rub her back. She pushes him away lightly and sucks in some air.

“I’m fine,” she says breathlessly. I offer up some juice, but she refuses me, too. “Anyway, here’s what I wanted to show you!” She whips the object she’s holding, and when she straightens it out, I see that it’s a dress. I can feel my eyes sparkle as it settles on the red dress, while Garett and Nidle probably eye me like hawks.

“It’s a dress.” Nidle says, stating the obvious. Garett hides his chuckling by coughing.

Iris rolls her eyes. “My reaping dress!” She shifts her attention to me, who is obviously enamored by such beauty.

“Can I touch it?” The way the cloth stretches out makes me feel that at a simple touch, the dress could be broken. But Iris says okay, so I do. It feels just like how a Capitol dress should feel. In the factory where I work, there are tons of orders for Capitol dresses every hour, and getting to touch them and see them, no matter how overworked we are, is a joy in itself. I touch the cloth, the red, _ red _ cloth and feel its quality in my fingertips. It’s made of polyester and felt soft to the touch, not too thick and not too thin. And the color—the richness of it, how the red looks so alive, like it’s almost breathing. The sleeves reach down to the elbows, and the skirt down to the knees. Its neck line stretches down to collarbones, perfect for a necklace to show. I’ve never seen something so beautiful in my life. I once thought that my gray dress was beautiful, but that pales compares to this. This is a simple work of art, but a work of art nonetheless.

“Someone named Plutarch Heavensbee gave this to Daddy.” She says, her nose in the air.

“It’s pretty.” Nidle says, although I can tell that he could care less.

Garett punches him in the shoulder. “We know you can’t appreciate beauty, so just shut up.” He says with a laugh before planting a kiss on Iris’ cheek. I look down at the dress again. Stupid Garett and his stupid kisses and his stupid ability to forget. “It’s a really pretty dress, baby.”

Nidle makes a sound that is a mix of snorting and chuckling.

“Shut up, Nidle.” Iris pouts.

We spend the rest of the hour talking, mostly about what to anticipate tomorrow. Iris says her father is already in his study room, practicing his speech. We all know there’s no need for Mayor Trent to practice since his speech is made up of the same boring words every year.

“I can’t wait to see how horrific Vergil Wellwood looks like tomorrow.” Iris laughs as she pours us another round of apple juice. “Orange skin with a green outfit? Not a nice combination.”

“Maybe he’s dyed his skin yellow this time?” Garett suggests. Last year, Vergil had green skin. Not the vibrant kind of green, like grass, but the green of moss, which is disgusting.

“Or maybe plucked all his eyebrows?” I say.

“All the same, he’ll just take another slip out of that ball.” Nidle says in a carefree voice. No one says anything after that. I play with the hem of my dress, Garett and Iris look at each other. Nidle really knows how to ruin the mood, just when it’s getting better. He just needs to remind all of us that the reaping is tomorrow, like it’s just nothing for him. I wish I had his optimism.

But then again, I might be mistaking his optimism for indifference.

“Shouldn’t you be getting to Cecelia’s now?” Nidle asks. “Iris, what time is it?”

“Four-thirty.”

I stretch my legs and reach for my toes before standing up. Nidle reaches his hand out to me and I help him stand. I dust off the blades of grass on the hem of my dress. I like the smell of it clinging to me, though, since the mayor’s house is one of the rare places in District 8 that has greenery. “Garett,” I turn to him, “you coming?”

“Staying with Iris.” Garett says, a tender smile on his lips, just like the way he smiled during that stormy night. It feels like a punch to the stomach, though I can never fully understand why. I guess it’s just painful to know that Iris always sees those smiles of his rather than me.

What am I even thinking? I have to go and get away. We say our goodbyes and see-you-tomorrows before I grab Nidle by the shirt, brisk-walking out of the Trent estate.

He speaks up when we reach the sidewalk. “Why are you in such a hurry?” He deliberately slows down his pace so I can slow down.

“We need to give them privacy.” I say.

Nidle snorts. “Privacy. Yeah, right.” He stops walking, and I stop. “Okay, slow down.” He says in a soft voice.

I turn to him and see a stupid smile on his face. “How can I slow down when you stopped?”

He rolls his eyes. “Such witticism.”

“Shut up.”

“Okay, just tell me why you are so on edge.”

“What?”

“You. On edge. Today. Why?”

I can’t believe him. “_ Really? _”

He furrows his brow as if I’m the one who asked the stupid question. “_ What? _”

“Because!” I say exasperatedly.

Because I have thirty slips in, and he has thirty-five. Because the odds _ might _ be in our favor tomorrow. Because Iris has five slips, and what if she somehow gets reaped? Because we’re still stuck in this vicious cycle, a cycle we’ll never probably get away from. Because he’s acting so… _ relaxed _ even though our deaths might be certain once the sun starts to rise tomorrow.

But I can’t tell him any of that. I _ don’t _want to tell him any of that.

“Because Iris has such a nice dress.” I lie, but not really.

“Really? You’re on edge because of _ that _?”

I push him, hard. He falls on the ground. “Shut up, Nidle!”

He laughs, but there is a bit of anger in there, too. I can feel it. “Come on, help me up.”

Stupid as I am, I help him up. Even as he stands straight, he won’t let go of my hand. He keeps it there, encased in his own. The warmth is all too familiar for me. We’ve held hands before, but this is different, as if there is a meaning behind it only the two of us can understand. Not really, though. When a boy and girl hold hands, everyone thinks of the same thing.

“You can let go now.” I say.

“Let’s walk to Cecelia’s like this.” He whispers, and he starts walking ahead, me tailing behind him like an obedient idiot.

But I don’t refuse him. Sometimes, being an idiot like this feels nice. It’s just one of the things I can take for granted.

The walk to Cecelia’s from Iris’ takes about thirty minutes, twenty if you’re in a hurry. We pass by what is known in 8 as the Plaza, where buildings doubling as shops and houses are lined up. People are coming in and out of the buildings, some of them with bags of supplies in their hands, the others, plain smiles or excruciating frowns. There’s the bakery Cliff likes going to, the dress shop my mother used to work in, until the pay wasn’t enough for her growing family anymore. Most of the shops have been there since I was born, and yet the families running them have never been richer than they were years ago. It just goes to show how much District 8 isn’t any better, how a district that gives too much to the Capitol would still have their children line up for tesserae. Not every one line ups, but there are still who do, kids like me, Nidle, and Garett. Even working in so many shifts isn’t enough to fill your stomach.

We pass by a candy store, where some kids from our part of town have their noses pressed on the window. “Ah, to be a kid again,” Nidle says wistfully, as if he has gone beyond seeing the road in front of him and he is looking at memories of a not-too-distant childhood.

I snort. “You’re still a kid.”

“I’m _ sixteen. _”

“Still a kid.”

“Whatever. No one’s young enough to be butchered by the Capitol, anyway.” He says out of the blue. I cast my head down to avoid answering back. _ He’s right, _ I think, but I dare not say. Anyone could be listening. Even the ground has ears.

So, I focus again on the warmth of his hand, how it engulfs me so easily. I wish he can just shut up and enjoy the bliss of us holding hands. Does he really need to talk about how the Capitol can take away everything we hold so dear all the time? Nidle has a rebellious spirit, everyone knows that, but sometimes I wish I could smack sense into him. That everything he says can be heard. That possibly one day—but please, _ please _ don’t let that happen ever— he might just disappear, the way the more vocal people do. Can’t he just… endure it, at least until an opportunity springs up?

I can see the Victor’s Village arch from far away, and we still haven’t let go of each other’s hands. The crunching of rocks underneath our shoes serves as a nice placeholder for our conversation, until Nidle begins again.

“Did you get to ask your mom about the thing?” He asks carefully. I can tell he’s picked out the words the entire time he’s silent.

“What thing?” I confirm. He could be talking about a dozen of things.

He sighs at my feigned stupidity. “The rumor, Anya.”

I look at the arch. “Yes.” I tell him about it. How Mom told me that it was just a rumor from years ago. How there was no such thing as a stylist asking her to be an assistant; how it was just a lie someone made up about her declining to live a luxurious life in the Capitol. “She just… laughed. I think she’s telling the truth.”

“Of course she’d tell you it’s just a rumor.” Nidle’s grip on my hand tightens as we enter the Victor’s Village. “She’s your mom.”

“Well why don’t you ask her since you know so much about lying moms?” I snap back. I realize how rude my words are the moment they left my mouth.

He sighs. “I really don’t like you the day before reapings.”

“Well then, sorry for being such a worry-wart.” I try to pull my hand away from him, but he doesn’t let go.

“Everything’s going to be okay.” He whispers softly, running his thumb over mine. I can tell how much he wants to assure me that everything is indeed going to be okay. I want to believe him, I really do, but it’s not enough. Not with all the time the Capitol assures us that everything is not okay.

I hold onto his hand and nod. “Yeah,” I reply half-heartedly, “everything’s going to be fine.”  



End file.
